Eddie and the Vegetarian Vampire

By Dennis M. Desmond

Twelve-year-old Eddie, short, pudgy, hard-of-sight, his nose buried in a book, has no idea how he wound up in the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage as an infant or why he can't be adopted. He gets the shock of his life one evening when the bat in the orphanage basement transforms into a vampire and introduces himself as Count Bloodless. The starving Count is also an orphan, rejected by his vampire family because he is vegetarian. An unexpected friendship blossoms as Eddie helps the Count find the food he desperately needs to survive, and the vampire helps Eddie unlock the secret of his past. Written in the rollicking spirit of Roald Dahl and set in World War II-era Boston, Eddie and the Vegetarian Vampire features a protagonist who will discover that family and belonging are sometimes found in the most unexpected of places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saguaro Books, LLC
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201020897

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Dennis M. Desmond

Saguaro Books, LLC

SB

Arizona

Copyright © 2022 Dennis M. Desmond

Printed in the United States of America

All Rights Reserved

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This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Reviewers may quote passages for use in periodicals, newspapers, or broadcasts provided credit is given to Eddie and the Vegetarian Vampire by Dennis M. Desmond and Saguaro Books, LLC.

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Saguaro Books, LLC

16845 E. Avenue of the Fountains, Ste. 325

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www.saguarobooks.com

ISBN: 9798831437607

Library of Congress Cataloging Number

LCCN: 2022939354

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

Dedication

For my mother, whose stories of growing up an orphan are with me always.

Chapter 1 

A Most Unexpected Visitor

You might think being grabbed by the collar, dragged down a set of slimy steps and tossed into a dusty dungeon would be a scary experience for a twelve-year-old.

Not for me. I’m prepared.

A pack of matches, a bag of peanuts and a paperback Webster’s Dictionary are in my pockets.

Now you can practice your vocabulary all night long, Sister Josephine says.

She’s right. I love big words.

Sister Josephine tosses me in the empty cell with the cold steel bars and the spiders crawling on the floor, my punishment for not making my bed three days in a row.

It isn’t much of a punishment. I deliberately did not make my bed. I wanted to spend the night in the cell.

Not often, mind you. The dungeon is cold, damp and more than a little creepy in the pitch-black darkness. Now and then, though, I need a break from the waking, washing, school, meals and mopping the barracks floor before bedtime.

I don’t really live in a barracks. I enjoy pretending I’m in the Army, fighting the Nazis and Japanese. I live in an orphanage, a place for kids with no parents; in Boston, with one hundred other boys, ages nine to thirteen.

We are of different races, speak different languages and wound up here for different reasons. Some, as my best friend, Mugsy, whose real name is Julio have a parent in prison. Others lost their dads in the war, which started three years ago, back in 1941. It was our bad luck to be born too late to serve, though if the War lasts another five years, I’ll be seventeen and ready, with the permission of the nuns. Except for Sister Kate, most would be happy to see me go.

I have no idea how or why I was placed in an orphanage. I came as a baby and the nuns won’t tell me.

One of my deepest wishes is to break into the office with the giant lock and the No Children Allowed sign and steal my file, the one containing my secrets, such as where I came from and who my

parents are. I want the file even more than I want to break into the closet where the best food is hidden.

In my cell, my fingers grab for the iron cot, which serves as my bed. It’s comforting, the same as prayers at bedtime. I sink into the lumpy mattress and light a match. The darkness goes away, replaced by stone walls and a brown concrete floor.

Outside the cell is a huge basement, with a low ceiling and enough dust to make me constantly sneeze. It’s used to store all kinds of useless and broken things, including chairs with one leg and sinks with no faucets; maybe a few orphans as well.

The room is also home to my friend, Barty the Bat.

It might surprise you to learn anyone could be friends with a bat. Barty is cute and friendly. He has a flat face and sad red eyes, grinning and hopping on one leg when he gets excited. I have no idea how he got into the orphanage. Maybe the nuns left the front door open, hoping some of us might take the hint and leave.

What better way to make friends than through a meal? As bats go, Barty is a picky eater. He loves peanuts instead of bugs and won’t eat anything else, which is why I smuggled some from the kitchen, not an easy thing to do. Peanuts are in short supply as is everything else these days.

He’s a real pal, shows up on time for his treat. I push a few peanuts through the bars of my cell. Psst, Barty, I call, Come and get it.

Barty does not come, though, which is unusual. Did Sister Josephine scare him away?

As for me, I don’t scare easy. I won’t let anyone boss me around. You’d think I’d be a target because I wear thick glasses, use big words and am no good at baseball. I can’t see worth a darn so I always strike out. I don’t go looking for fights but anyone who lays a hand on me is going to get a knuckle sandwich in return. I’ll take a whipping. I might loosen a tooth or two when it’s my turn.

If you saw me, you would think I look funny. I’m on the short side for almost thirteen, pudgy, with brown hair and eyes. The thing you’d notice most about me are my peepers. Behind my hand-me-down glasses, they look huge, as in a science experiment and I’m Frankenstein’s unwanted little brother. The one nobody talks about at the Frankenstein family reunion.

I settle down to my favorite daydream, where I’m a tough sergeant, urging my troops on. Don’t give up now, boys, I tell them, as bullets whizz by, We got those Nazis on the run.

I sometimes imagine I’m my dad or maybe my dad is really Captain America. Of course I don’t know who my dad is, where he is or even if he is still alive.

I fall asleep.

Except my dreaming on this particular evening is interrupted by a noise, a loud noise I’ve never heard before, a scraping sound, stone on concrete, as if part of a wall is opening up, which makes no sense.

I feel a draft, the match I strike blows out and I am completely surrounded by darkness.

I freeze, afraid to breathe. The little hairs on my neck stand up. I swear I hear the soft padding of feet and have the strange feeling there’s something, or someone, watching me in the dark, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Just then, I hear the sound of teeth crunching on peanuts.

Barty.

I strike a new match to greet my little friend.

Except my little friend is nowhere to be seen. In his place is a big man, with pale skin and slicked-back hair, dressed head-to-toe in black and peanut crumbs on his face.

Oh my God, has he eaten Barty?

My heart asks permission to leave my chest.

He turns and smiles at me. Good evening, he says, in a deep voice. My name is Count Bloodless.

This time, my heart does leave my chest. In addition to having a funny accent, he has long, white canine teeth. Fangs.

Fortunately, he is on the other side of the bars.

Before I can scream, I hear a poof and Count Bloodless disappears. In his place sits Barty. Barty grins at me. Another poof and the Count re-appears.

I’m too stunned to either talk or move.

I need your help, the Count says. Please.

I look closer. I notice the Count’s cheeks are sunken, his back stooped.

I must eat. I must feed, he says.

The guy is the spitting image of Count Dracula, the blood-sucking vampire and I know he wants to make me his next meal.

Do not be afraid, the Count says, seeming to read my mind. I do not drink blood. I cannot stand it. It tastes as terrible as Castor Oil. Yes, I need proteins but only get them by eating nuts and beans. I am, how you say...a vegetarian vampire.

In addition to shaking in my shoes, I’m now going crazy.

Joe’s Diner on Tremont Street serves bean soup, I hear myself say, in a voice so low I can hardly hear it.

Take me there, now, the Count says. I am starving.

The Count holds up a long fingernail and sticks it into the cell lock. The lock pops open. You see? Now you are free.

Unfortunately, Count Dracula is now in my cell.

At this moment, something wonderful happens. A sliver of light appears at the top of the stairs. Daylight.

Vampires hate daylight, even vegetarian vampires, it would seem.

The Count backs up, arms raised. He shuffles to a section of the stone wall, which opens and swallows him, as he backs inside with a grinding of stone.

Please come back for me tonight, he says, his voice fading away. Pleeeaaassseee...

Chapter 2

Stay Out of the Basement

Not even 1938 Olympic racer Jesse Owens could have beaten me up those stairs to the second floor dormitory. I jump into bed, pull up the covers and order my shivering body to be still. Wake-up time, 6:30 in the morning, is only a few minutes away. Out of the corner of my eye, Sister Josephine approaches.

Sister Josephine resembles the Empire State Building: tall, wide at the bottom and thin up top. As with the rest of the nuns, she wears black, laced-up shoes, a black robe with a white front and a black veil over a white headdress wrapped so tight around the forehead only the eyes, nose, red cheeks and mouth can be seen.

Sister Josephine calls herself a disciplinarian, and she isn’t kidding. She has boxed so many boys around the ears she could make world champion Joe Louis cry for his mama. She is tougher than any vampire could ever be.

For sure, I will be her next target when she sees I’ve escaped from the cell.

Sister Josephine shakes me roughly about the shoulders. Shower time, she says (lucky for me, she seems to have forgotten all about the basement).

Ugh. I forgot. Today we shower before breakfast. Usually, I look forward to the hot water streaming down my face, even if only for three minutes. Now I can’t think straight. I need to talk to someone.

I take my place in line for the shower. We stand five deep, waiting our turn.

Mugsy, I whisper to my best buddy in front of me.

What’s buzzin’ cousin? he says.

Nobody thinks about laying a hand on Mugsy. He’s Puerto Rican and can even say some Spanish words. He’s a short kid, almost a year older than me, with a face of a bulldog and a bite as bad. You back him against a wall, you’ll see what I mean.

You’re not going to believe this, I tell him. I met a vampire in the basement. A real vampire.

Is his name Count Dracula by chance? Mugsy teases.

Count Bloodless, I reply. He’s a vegetarian. He hates meat.

Mugsy nods. Must be an orphan vampire sick of eating Sister Maria’s cooking.

I’m serious, I say.

Mugsy turns away with a grin. I can’t blame him for thinking I’m being a smarty pants. We play tricks on each other all the time.

As hot water pours down a few minutes later, I wonder if I’ve been the victim of a trick. Halloween is approaching and the Brothers, who teach some of our classes, love to play pranks. Could one have dressed up as the Count?

The changing into a bat, however, was no prank.

Neither was the funny accent... Was it a German accent?

In Captain America comics, the German Nazis do evil things. I remember hearing Nazi Leader Adolf Hitler is also a vegetarian, which gets this orphan boy thinking. Could Count Bloodless be a follower? Have I stumbled across a nest of Nazi spies living in the church basement?

I wrap the towel around my body and dash for my bed where I put my clothes on under the sheets. A nun must never see a boy naked. When I pop out will I become Captain America?

Captain America is a super-soldier who fights the Nazis with an indestructible shield.

I fly down the stairs to the first floor cafeteria, Captain America unbound, ‘unbound,’ my word of the day, according to my dictionary, meaning ‘on the loose’. Sister Kate, one of the six nuns who take care of us, stands at the cafeteria door. At the sight of her, my imaginary shield disappears and I crash to earth.

Sister Kate has green eyes and dimples when she smiles. She was born in Ireland and immigrated when she was a little kid, a